1. ©M.L.
Crider
www.CriderInk.com
Holiday
Unholiness?
–
Top
5
Colorado
Humbug-­‐to-­‐Happiness
Tips
from
The
Jones
by
M.L.
Crider
December
2014
Oxford
Dictionary:
Holiday:
Old
English
-­‐
haligdoeg,
“holy
day”.
Holy?
Right.
We
may
earnestly
hope
or
wish
for
such,
but
ah-­‐hem:
How
about
some
good
old
holiday
holy
honesty
first?
Let’s:
Humbug.
December
1:
The
close
of
this
year’s
clock
just
tocked
its
almighty
ticking:
The
pressure.
The
jingles.
The
ads.
The
annual
tunes
just
began
blaring
their
jolly
shrills
while
echoing
out
of
the
mall
speakers
a
week
before
Black
Friday—which
may
don
the
unholy
award
for
titles
responsible
for
ringing
in
an
alleged
holy
season—hiccupping
like
the
confused
needle
on
scratchy
old
vinyl,
minus
the
romance.
As
if
scored
straight
into
your
brain
without
its
consent,
the
generic
holiday
verses
blare,
buzz
and
tease
like
flies
that
each
cunningly
escape
your
devout
attempted
swatting,
swirling
daftly
around
instead
back
up
into
their
automatic
aerial
holding
patterns
up
there…repeating
Here
Comes
Santa
Claus
bell-­‐clanging
choruses
and
such.
There
is
no
end
to
this
random
music
poisoning.
Your
mental
attic
has
now
become
the
full-­‐swing
flipping
Fly
Festival
for
their
noisy
December,
rent-­‐free.
No
voting
allowed.
Just
guessing,
but
a
literal
million
of
us
may
by
now
unanimously
nod
that
the
competitive
vendetta
of
keeping
up
with
the
Jones
this
season
grew
straight
into
obsolete
fetish
an
attention
deficit
decade
or
three
ago.
But
has
it?
Who
are
The
Jones
anymore?
Do
we
even
know
them?
Too
much
has
happened
lately.
The
Login
Gen
has
soaked
each
of
us
in
time-­‐sucking
password
commands
for
all
things
that
beep
or
alight,
save
our
own
brains
for
now.
2014
history
books
have
fattened
with
glum.
We’re
all
just
trying…
to
get
by.
So,
who
has
the
time
to
even
ponder
The
Jones
family
now,
let
alone
the
obnoxious
flashing
state
of
their
candy-­‐cane
flanked
driveway?
Yes,
alright,
we
know
that
the
social
gravity
of
the
almighty
microwave
coerced
the
1970s
plump
red
Bing
cherries
into
peeling
right
off
the
housewife’s
apron
with
a
thud,
evaporating
into
the
thinnest
air
of
early
morning
fluorescent
politically
correct
co-­‐ed
cubicles.
Just
around
the
time
that
Gloria
pronounced
that
fish
don’t
really
need
bicycles,
the
overly
ripened
aprons
swiftly
saluted
after
the
cherries
fell,
victoriously
slipping
off
of
the
housebound
estrogen
fishies,
dead
scales
and
all.
A
co-­‐ed
world
remains.
Forgetting
hormones,
who
now
male,
female,
or
snail
has
ample
time
to
staple-­‐gun
lights
all
over
the
roof
with
that
plastered
rage-­‐concealed
Chevy
Chase
holiday
smile?
The
voice
upstairs
keeps
bantering.
Yes,
The
Voice
that
talks
to
thyself—the
one
that
allows
the
mall’s
musical
flies
to
incessantly
encircle
the
mental
airport
hanger
upstairs,
The
Voice
that
just
retorted
in
your
mind,
“Voice?
What
voice?...
Rubbish,
my
mind
doesn’t
talk
to
itself…
Nooo,
I
don’t
hear
a
voice,
dear…”
Ding!
That’s
the
one.
It
yammers
on,
begging
judgmental
whispers
about
what
we
have
not
yet
done
for
the
house,
the
kids,
and
our
dusty
dreams
of
ago:
“The
Christmas
tree
isn’t
up
yet.
The
fake
one
with
green
bushy
limbs
that
saw
its
golden
day
ago
was
smashed
up
from
the
big
divorce
move
and
is
probably
hiding
like
Harrison
Ford’s
prized
chalice
under
a
couple
of
hulking
book
boxes
that
the
sociopathic
movers
dumped
on
it,
while
ignoring
my
carefully
intentioned
Sharpie
labeled
“fragile”!
This
tree-­‐saving
word
is
now
not
facing
outward
in
order
so
that
I
can
locate
it
pronto
this
weekend,
before
the
second
snow
barfs
its
nonchalance
all
over
the
driveway.”
And
yes,
it
is
an
urgent
buried
box.
I’d
like
to
have
the
dang
thing
up
and
plugged
in
before
beholding
the
nostalgic
neighborhood
pseudo-­‐confused-­‐Jones’
freshly
cut
trees
that
will
be
twinkling
through
their
foyer
windows,
pointy
star
and
all,
for
procrastinating
neighbors
such
as
myself
to
begin
sighing
over.
Someone
.
.
.
H
e
l
p!!!?
Swallow,
inhale.
OK:
The
Voice
just
sauntered
in
again,
rationalizing,
embellishing
to
justify
for
a
beat
while

2. ©M.L.
Crider
www.CriderInk.com
scratching
your
head:
Did
the
Jones
have
ample
time
to
snuggle
up
and
tuck
in
with
the
kiddos
to
re-­‐watch
Chevy’s
apropos
holiday
rage
in
the
original
Christmas
Vacation
after
having
stuffed
someone
else’s
charity-­‐
baked
buffet
turkey
into
their
kids?
The
undying
neighborhood
vendetta
and
my
nostalgic
dreams
of
youth
that
didn’t
come
true,
they
keep
knocking
on
my
wreathless
door.
This
morphed
neuroses
of
somehow
beating
each
other
in
a
yard-­‐light
race
to
happiness
via
prickly
trees
and
pointy
stars
now
looks
like
one
big
slapped
displacement
that
has
literally
been
projected
itself
all
over
my
neighborhood
by
way
of
loud
lights,
fake
snowmen
with
fake
coal
as
their
noses,
and
fake
trees
from
a
basement
box.
Truly?
Is
this
it?
Jones
or
Smith,
these
days
slightly
after
the
crack
of
dawn,
a
much
deserved
estrogen
yawn,
and
exactly
one
cup
of
generic-­‐brand
coffee
poisoned
by
chlorinated
tap
water
at
such
cherry-­‐less,
apron-­‐less
mod-­‐woman’s
early
morning
obnoxious
cancer-­‐making
fluorescent
petri-­‐dish-­‐of-­‐a-­‐desk,
the
ads
smothering
the
radio
waves
don’t
help,
but
the
neighborhood
vendetta
itch
still
begs.
Shall
we
stuff
away
the
dreamy
family
tradition
we
occupied
as
wee
ones?
“Oh,
Yes!
The
very
weekend
of
Thanksgiving,
I
will
have
my
own
family.
We
will
skip
into
some
forest
somewhere
giggling
after
carefree
warm
eggnog.
We
will
find
and
cut
down
a
Christmas
tree…together!
Yippee!”
Oh,
humbug.
Reality
now
pales
in
comparison,
so
I’m
just
gonna
say
it:
The
first
few
of
weeks
of
December
have
become
an
unending
dirt-­‐pile-­‐straight-­‐under-­‐the-­‐rug
sport
with
the
ex-­‐wife,
deciding
tug-­‐of-­‐war
style
(between
hang-­‐ups)
exactly
which
24
hour
periods
during
Christmas
weekend
that
the
kids
will
be
shuffled
like
some
card
game
in
Vegas
between
house
stays
post-­‐vitriolic
acid
smothered
phone
calls
betwixt
their
parents
since
our
recent
split.
The
question
of
which
grandparents
are
still
married
(or
alive)
that
either
of
us
must
agree
to
accommodate
for
three
whole
days
and
long
nights
in
one
of
the
kids’
twin
beds
at
either
house
after
their
guilt-­‐laden
Christopher
Columbus
haul
from
their
Floridian
or
Californian
balmy
beach
house—
that’s
still
on
the
front
burner-­‐-­‐boiling,
as
it
were.
Meanwhile,
back
at
thy
own
humble
homestead
when
in
a
rush
beyond
rushes
yesterday
morn,
you
staple-­‐
gunned
some
cheap
orange
and
white
tacky
holiday
light
strings
from
the
grocery
store
run’s
last
minute
holiday
aisle
for
dummies
section
to
the
side
of
the
house.
You
were
just
pitching
your
initial
shy
attempt
at
participation
in
the
neighborhood
Jones’
unspoken
rage
of
aesthetic
Yards-­‐of-­‐Lights
game—when
low
and
behold
you
learned
that
the
soot-­‐singed
smoldering
smears
on
the
peach
paint
post-­‐plugging
the
dang
thing
in
can
not
be
wiped
away
with
the
Dollar
General
bleach
water
you
keep
in
the
specially
designated
Sharpie-­‐marked
bottle
in
tandem
with
the
trusty
grime-­‐rag
that
you
still
try
to
keep
for
such
special
smoldering
occasions
as
this.
Heck,
you’re
just
feeling
grateful
that
your
finger
and
thumb
are
still
available.
Painting
over
the
insipid
blackness
now
must
wait
until
the
spring
bucketlist
kicks
off
when
the
plant
by
the
door
yearns
to
return
from
the
dead,
as
you
will.
Then?
That
Voice
again.
It
prods
as
usual,
but
this
time,
it
seductively
sashays
around
up
there
like
Cruella
DeVille’s
less-­‐nice
sister
masquerading
as
Marilyn
Monroe:
“Do
people
send
snail-­‐mail
holiday
cards
anymore?
Did
my
addresses
sync
with
Gmail
from
my
phone?
Should
I
print
labels
and
hard
mail
people?
Is
there
an
app
for
that?”
The
Question:
Who
exactly
is
it
that
we
are
driven
like
some
ferocious
invisible
engine
to
“keep
up
with”
anymore?
Do
we
even
know
The
Jones?
Do
they
exist?
And
if
we
did
know
them,
is
the
relentless
frumpy
yard
and
tree
racing
honestly
necessary?
We
seem
to
do
well
just
to
keep
up
with
ourselves
while
firing
up
neighborhoods
via
singeing
our
houses
ablaze
and
hunting
basement
boxes
for
fake
green
limbs
as
a
result
of
the
deficit
sustained
from
our
insatiable
childhood
yearnings.
Is
this
how
we
decide
that
preparing
for
the
“holidays”
should
be
for
us?
You’d
rather
swallow
forks
than
to
bear
another
24-­‐hour
period
of
such
madness.
Agreed.
The
Other
Question:
What
is
holy
about
living
during
the
holidays?
Dictionaries
are
handy:
Oxford
Dictionary:
Holy:
Old
English
-­‐
halig
aka
“whole,
sacred,
morally
and
spiritually
excellent!”
Oxford
Dictionary:
Living:
Old
English
-­‐
libban,
lifian,
“perennially
flowing”.
How
do
we
now
have
and
enjoy
a
“perennially
flowing,
sacred,
whole,
morally
and
spiritually
excellent
holiday”,
Ms.
Jones?!
Do
tell!
Top
5
Colorado
Humbug-­‐to-­‐Happiness
Tips
from
The
Jones
to
The
Smiths:

3. ©M.L.
Crider
www.CriderInk.com
1.
Help
someone
who
doesn’t
have
a
house
for
a
tree;
they
have
a
body
with
an
empty
stomach:
Denver
Rescue
Mission
1130
Park
Avenue
West,
Denver.
Got
cans?
Left
over
soup
from
last
night?
Hit
the
soup
kitchen.
Hope
begins
here
with
$1.92
if
you
feel
it.
Volunteer
or
just
show
up.
Web:
https://www.denverrescuemission.org
+1(303)
294-­‐0157.
2.
Sit
with
your
eyes
closed
for
5
whole
minutes
tomorrow
morning
allowing
the
sun
to
gently
laser
its
warm
beams
directly
into
your
forehead,
then
scoot
down
to
the
Tri-­‐State
Denver
Buddhist
Temple,
no
matter
your
religion
or
lack
thereof;
perhaps
ask
if
they
need
anything
over
the
holiday
season
after
taking
a
mental
walk
throughout.
Scoop:
www.tsdbt.org
+1(303)
295-­‐1844.
3.
Take
a
stroll
with
your
newest
date
or
the
kiddos
through
Denver’s
one
and
only
holiday
Zoo
Lights.
Bring
a
touch
of
cheer
via
a
hello
to
the
fuzzy
pals
behind
bars.
Happening
now!
Available
every
single
night
at
the
Denver
Zoo:
5:30
p.m.
–
9:00
p.m.
through
January
4th!
Web:
http://www.denverzoo.org/events/zoo-­‐lights-­‐
2014
+1
(720)
337-­‐1400
4.
Oh,
Denverites,
Denveradians,
Denverinos?
Question:
What
do
Cheesman,
Washington,
Civic
Center,
Confluence,
Sloan’s
Lake,
Commons,
Skyline,
Centennial
Flower
Gardens,
&
Bear
Creek
have
in
common?
Answer:
A
grassy
invitation
for
your
flower-­‐filled
stress-­‐free
holiday
season
enjoyment.
Toss
together
an
easy
fun
picnic
and
walk—no
wheels,
yes,
shoes—with
someone
you
love
or
someone
from
#1
to
one
of
Denver’s
top
fave
lush
parks.
The
mile
high
city
boasts
more
than
4,000
acres
of
traditional
parks
and
parkways,
which
include
2,500
urban
natural
acres,
over
300
acres
of
parks
designated
rivers
and
trails,
and
an
additional
14,000
acres
of
spectacular
mountain
parks.
Downtown
Denver
is
blanketed
in
such
lush
sophistication,
so
cop-­‐a-­‐squat
on
its
kind
green
floors,
wiggle
your
toes
around
in
the
wetness,
and
exhale
in
deepest
gratitude
that
you
live
here.
[Psst!
-­‐Picnic
Tip:
Local
King
Sooper
has
family
deals
at
the
deli
for
a
fun
picnic
basket:
fried
chicken,
mashed,
and
pick
a
side.]
No
excuses.
Cool?
Cool.
Web:
http://www.denver.org/things-­‐to-­‐do/sports-­‐
recreation/denver-­‐parks/
+1(720)
913-­‐1311
5.
ColoradoWood
–
Galactic
Mental
Matrices:
Hollywood’s
piping
hot
new
blockbuster,
Interstellar,
starring
Matthew
McConoughey
and
Anne
Hathaway,
has
ricocheted
and
echoed
our
awesome
state’s
NORAD
literally
all
over
the
galaxy
and
into
realms
unknown
this
season.
Learn
how
cool
you
in
fact
are,
Colorado.
Endeavor
out
of
the
humbug
rigamaroo
for
a
half-­‐day
to
understand
with
thy
own
feet
for
thyself
exactly
what
your
Colorado
offers
to
our
world
by
booking
a
tour
of
NORAD.
If
time
isn’t
kind
enough
to
incorporate
NASA
&
NORAD
brilliance
into
the
thick
Dayrunner,
then
perhaps
just
opt
to
revisit
“Things
to
Do
in
Denver
When
You’re
Dead”
with
a
trusty
tub
of
ice
cream
and
the
remote.
Dopamine
&
Netflix
should
be
proven
fact
by
now
in
the
obliteration
of
holiday
humbugs,
if
only
for
a
single
December
night.
NORAD
Tours:
http://www.visitcos.com/cheyenne-­‐mountain-­‐and-­‐norad
or
help
them
with
The
NORAD
Santa
Tracker:
http://www.noradsanta.org/.
No
time?
Google
“Haagen-­‐Dazs”
or
pop
on
by
next
door
to
share
some
with
us.
We’d
love
to
show
you
our
tree!
Yes
.
.
.
Love,
The
Jones